


Say You'll Haunt Me

by i_want_you_to_make_me (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: And John is my poor baby, Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Sherlock is a hero, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:47:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/i_want_you_to_make_me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> "Of course, only Sherlock could manage to interrupt his suicide." </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say You'll Haunt Me

**Author's Note:**

> This was born out of an idea I've had for a really long time. It's pretty angsty and I regret nothing. So there. There are mentions of suicide and also Sherlock's fake suicide. You have been warned. I also want to thank Krissie for crying with me and helping me write this.

John had been going mad for months. But you couldn't blame him. For a week, he had lived inside the ghost of a place. The only thing that brought it to life was someone he could hear but could no longer feel. It was like holding on to the remnants of a dream.

221B was just a flat again. Just an ordinary place.

But that wasn't the only reason. You see, John had been seeing Sherlock. Same long coat, ruffled mess of dark curls, blue scarf. And he'd go through tunnel vision and loss of breath and the whole world would slip away because it was his best friend standing in the middle of a coffee shop. His dead best friend standing there.

But then the scarf would look more purple, and the hair would be black not that deep rich brown, and John's chest would ache so strongly it felt as if he was losing him again.

And as if by some horrible curse, his mind constantly replayed the jump. Arms splayed. Soft goodbye. And then he'd tip.

The time he realized he was talking out loud to Sherlock was the time he knew he had to move out. He had to leave 221B or he'd lose himself completely in a ghost, in a dream of hope for the impossible.

Molly let him stay in her flat for awhile, but it always felt like she was keeping a secret from him and whenever he brought up Sherlock, which was rarely, she'd make an excuse to leave. He supposed that was how she mourned. Privately. Sherlock wouldn't have wanted that.

He had stopped talking to Ella months ago. All she did was constantly ask him to tell her what he really wanted to say to Sherlock. Asked him to relive the fall over and over again, and when he was withering in agony she’d hand him a prescription for more medication.

He was not taking medication. He didn’t have depression. Screw her. She didn’t understand. No one understood.

What would he say to Sherlock?

_Sorry I never told you, but I loved you. Whoops. My bad. Better luck next time._

And he had. This wasn’t new. It wasn’t some stupid romance story where he suddenly figured out he had loved the now dead man all along. He always had. Of course, it hadn’t been the second they met. John prided himself in having more dignity than that. He had realized it the night after their first case together. He was surprised he had managed to last that long.

He had sat in bed that night and all he could think about was that stupid bloody deduction he made about Anderson and Donovan. How they had walked together and John insisted he not giggle, because it was a crime scene and they had only laughed harder. John had felt so carefree, so absolutely weightless in that instant. The memory was a soap bubble, thin and fragile, a single breath, a tiny fall, and that bubble would pop.

He had loved Sherlock so strongly then. So wholeheartedly and so completely. He would follow that brilliant mind to the ends of the earth. And he had. He’d followed him right to the end, and where did that leave him? He had followed until the abrupt end and now he was lost.

John had been on a dark path before Sherlock. His day had been so routine, so absolutely meaningless, he had been fighting the urge to end it all for months. Sherlock had swooped in and saved him.

_Heroes don’t exist, do they Sherlock? That’s what you said. Well, you were wrong. For once you were wrong. You were a hero. You saved me._

John was headed down that dark path again. 3 years later and he was done trying to make his life work like before. Lestrade didn’t need him. He had tried, John had tried, but even with the ghost of Sherlock nudging him in the right direction, he had failed miserably. He could not come up with a single lead. Anderson and Donovan had heckled him until he was sobbing in the back of a cab. He was never called on for a case again.

His old flat hadn’t changed either, because he couldn't stay with Molly. It was as if something incredible had happened that rocketed John right out of his life, and just like it came, it left. He was back where he had been, except now he was completely different.

He was going to kill himself.

He wanted to die.

Sherlock had stayed dead, John had stayed broken.

“221B, please.” he whispered to the cab driver.

The cabman responded with an indifferent grunt.

The Sig felt heavy tucked into the waist of his trousers  suddenly, and he took a deep, steadying breath. When they arrived, he threw money at the cabbie, and climbed out.

He took the stairs two at a time. He tried his hardest not to register his surroundings. This place wasn’t the same. It felt dead.

However, he hesitated at the door to the flat. Oh, God, maybe he shouldn’t do it here. Maybe he _couldn’t_ do it here.

His hand hovered over the door handle before he unlocked it and let himself in.

It hit him all at once. Mrs. Hudson hadn’t asked for new tenants. She had not gotten rid of Sherlock’s things. They were piled high in boxes everywhere. The skull. The smiley face on the wall. Oh God, he was going to either be sick or have a mental breakdown.

When had he started crying? He supposed it didn’t matter.

Sherlock was everywhere in the room. He was sitting in his armchair. He was at the table. He was laying on the couch. He was yelling insults. He was whispering deductions. He was asking for milk.

John clutched at his chest. _Breath. You can do this. It will all be over soon._

His hands shook as he reached for the Sig. He pulled it out and closed the door. He walked slowly and deliberately to the table as Sherlock told him he was an idiot, but that it was okay because practically everyone was. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a sealed letter. It was his note. Not a phone call. A real bloody letter. It may have been hastily constructed, but it’s sole purpose was to prove he had killed himself on purpose and it had not been someone else. After being with Sherlock long enough, he knew that this more important than some people thought.

He’d be with Sherlock soon enough.

He could not hold the gun steady as he pressed the cool barrel to his forehead. He could not breathe. He didn’t need to though, not now.

_Think of Sherlock. Let him be the last thing you think about._

He picked the memory of him and Sherlock in Dartmoor.

_“Listen, what I said before, John, I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one.”_

_Later that night, John had asked Sherlock why he kept him around. It had become obvious by then that Sherlock definitely did not have a single friend besides John._

_“You don’t hate me.”_

_“No, really. Why?”_

_“Stop talking, I’m trying to think.”_

John clicked the safety off.

_“No, you’re not.” John had said, accusingly. Silence followed._

_John was nearly asleep when he heard the soft reply, “You’re the first person to want to stay with me. You were the first person to ever tell me I’m brilliant.”_

John puts his finger on the trigger.

Deep breath.

_“Surely I’m not the first.” he had mumbled._

_“Not my parents, not my brothers, not the kids at school, or uni. Just you.”_

_“That’s because it’s true.”_

Another shallow breath, and he tensed his finger. He was about to end it.

_“You are my best friend. My only friend.”_

Of course, only Sherlock could manage to interrupt his suicide.

“Christ, John.” Sherlock cried, standing there, wide eyed with his stupid swishing coat and his long curly hair. John had not heard him come up. He supposed that made sense. Ghosts wouldn’t make noises.

John closed his eyes. His mind was playing tricks. Recalling another version of Sherlock. A fragment of him. A ghost. This was not his best friend.

“John, it’s okay, I’m here.” he whispered as if trying to calm and animal, “Put the gun down.”

No, no, no, no, no. This wasn’t happening. Breathe. He could not even remember how to breathe.

“No, you’re not.” John sobbed. “If I open my eyes, you’ll- you’ll be gone. You’re dead. You aren’t here.”

“John,” Sherlock said slowly, his voice low in his throat, John’s eyes were shut tight, but he could hear the sound of  cautious footsteps approaching him slowly. “Please. I’m really here. You have to believe me.”

“No.” John yelled, because he recognized those footsteps. “Leave me alone!”

“I won’t ever leave you again.” Sherlock whispered, incredibly close to John. He felt cool, long fingers grab his wrist, and another set of fingers pry the gun from his hand. He was shaking violently. His chest had constricted, and his heart kept stopping and speeding up. It raced itself to try and catch up with the impossible.

“You aren’t here! You bastard, can’t you just leave me alone! Hasn’t haunting me for the past three years been enough? Can’t you just let me die?” John’s scream had slowly become a whisper. His body could not stay still and he thought he might collapse but he could not open his eyes. If he did, he’d be hopelessly alone.

Slender fingers brushed his face and he stilled, leaning into the touch.

“Oh, John, what have I done to you?” Sherlock whispered forlornly, his thumb rubbing slow circles on John’s cheek, catching the tear that slid down.

“You bloody bastard.” John choked, because he recognized the touch.“You sick, twisted, beautiful, bloody sodding bastard.”

“I’m here.” he said, wrapping his hands around John’s waist and pulling him in. “I’m real.” he whispered into John’s hair.

“You nearly killed me.” John mumbled into his chest and he knew it was him because he smelt sterile like bleach but yet also like fresh laundry and tobacco and that was Sherlock. That was really Sherlock. He was choking and heaving and he wondered suddenly if maybe had had pulled the trigger because nothing made sense.

“John, you have to open your eyes.” Sherlock said gently, running his hand idly through a tuft of John’s hair.

“I can’t.” John said, his lip quivering.

John felt Sherlock pull back and he whimpered just slightly. He never wanted to let go. If he did, Sherlock might jump again. He felt soft breath on his lips and suddenly he couldn’t breathe for an entirely different reason.

“Will you open your eyes if I kiss you?”

“Sherlock.”

“John, please.”

“Yes.” he said slowly, “I will.”

John almost thought Sherlock had left, that he had been right all along. It was an eternity before either one even dared to breathe. Then, John felt soft lips press against his and he had imagined this so many times but he had never imagined that it could ever feel so right. It is a slow burning dance and they have known it their whole lives. They fall into a rhythm so easily it’s like Sherlock never left, like they had kissed thousands of times before. It is sweet but needy. They are trying to make up for lost time. They are succeeding.

Sherlock pulled away and John became acutely aware of what is expected of him. He has to open his eyes.

He balled his hands into fists so hard his knuckles turn white and his eyelids shoot open.

Sherlock Holmes stood in front of him.

 


End file.
